


Melancholy

by mansikka



Series: Heavyhearted [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Castiel, Sad, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: Cas has given up on waiting for Dean.





	Melancholy

It’s time to give up.

This wasn’t meant for you, anyway, not really, wasn’t something you ever dreamed you’d get to experience. And look how right you were about that; nothing has happened between you at all. Not for all those looks, those lingering fingers that have pressed into your skin, nor the whisper of a thousand unspoken words that all of the holy sonnets would have paled in comparison to, if only he would say them out loud.

He doesn’t want you. Except, you know that he does, but that he won’t let himself want you, won’t voice it. And if you’re honest with yourself, that’s what’s hurting most about this; the denial of it all. These feelings might be beyond your comprehension, and his fears ones you cannot ever truly understand. But you hear him, and you know him, just as much as he knows you. Yet still, he won’t. And it’s not frustrating, or excruciating anymore, it’s just poison. Poison that drips its way into you, for every snatched back hand, every clenched jaw biting back words, every non-action. Not acting says just as much as acting ever does, after all, and by not acting, he has left you this; stranded, in ways you were never meant to be stranded. In places you were never meant to tread.

You could have, you remind yourself, said, or done something about this yourself. But since you lack the knowledge, the experience of this, and have foolishly romanticised things between you, you have always secretly hoped that he’d be the one to show you the lead. To make that first move. To show you how. Because this is a human thing, dealing with these emotions, these desires, these strange new ways to navigate. And maybe that’s selfish, naive, or just too hopeful. But how can you be anything else, when hoping is the way he’s taught you how to live?

Maybe you’re just not worthy of him, and this is his way of telling you. He whispers it in sentences that never pass his lips, he seals them in the flicker of an eye, or a tilt of a chin that says, you aren’t everything. You aren’t anything to me beyond friend, colleague; you sure as hell aren’t enough. So maybe, it’s not poison you’ve been drinking, just acceptance. Acknowledgment of all the ways in which you lack.

It’s over now.

There’s only so many times in all the eons you’ve existed for you to know, to realize, that this isn’t where you belong. He is not who you belong to. You belong nowhere, tethered only by the torment of the thoughts you allow yourself to have, when none of this was ever yours.

The waitress is pretty, you think to yourself, a mass of curls and a warm smile that widens every time she catches your eye. He taught you this game, you remind yourself, shifting in discomfort, wondering if that’s the answer to this low, gnawing pain that’s eating away at you core deep; losing yourself in the pleasure of something you never really saw much point to actively pursuing. Not when it wasn’t with someone that you loved.

Love, you scoff to yourself, returning that smile just a little too brightly as you signal for another drink, love wasn’t something meant for you; not this kind of love. Nor was home, peace, or quiet, but you fooled yourself into thinking that they might have been once - more than once, actually. And each time, it was snatched away from you, crumbled before your very eyes, or just denied. And it hurts, it hurts to feel like this. Why would anyone choose to feel this way, you ask yourself in astonishment. Surely there are more, better things to feel, than the sensation that your heart is being shred apart?

The evening drags on, the drink burns your throat, but it’s the way you’ve been taught to grieve, so there’s really nothing else you can do. Or would know how to do, you amend, then laugh, adding the reminder that there is nowhere for you to go. You don’t belong anywhere, and you have no home. No one to turn to, no one wondering where you are. You could disappear, right here, and not a single soul would notice. It isn’t a sobering thought, just a statement of fact; still, it’s enough to signal for another refill.

It’s so late now, and you’ve worked your way through enough whiskey for it to be having an impact; perhaps you can stumble your way to a motel room. You have nothing but the clothes on your back and the things in your pockets, and even they contain meaningless things. What’s the point in owning anything, if you’ve no one to ever share them with? To wonder why you have them, guess maybe where they came from, trace affectionately along their blemishes; so you can pretend you’ve made a print on this existence. Piqued someone’s interest, at least for a little while.

You stand, hands wide around the bar stool as you right yourself, fight for your wallet, throw bills down on the counter that you don’t even count. Turning is an interesting feeling, as is the knowledge that you’re honestly not sure if you can even make it to the door. The door where he is now standing, you think, jolting a little, not sure if he’s just a figment of your imagination, or a conjuring of all the spirits you’ve been drinking all night long.

If you weren’t so numb you’d pinch yourself.

Drawing strength from depths flooded by oceans of alcohol, you strengthen your shoulders, suck in a breath that pricks sickness into your throat for all you’ve been drinking, yet you fight it back. Stand as tall, proud as you can, though proud is not how you feel. You stagger towards him, your words muted of their meaning, that you still fight to try to form into something of value, with your heart pulsing, every pound pulling you closer to him.

No amount of whiskey will ever dull his features to you. The green of his eyes, the curve of his smile, the twitch of his hands that is a nervous invitation, even through all that fog in your mind. And as you get closer, those features morph and shift with every pace. Sadness. Fear. Guilt. Longing. Love. Hope?

Fingertips graze just above your elbows, seeping heat through your jacket into your skin as he rights you, the breath of space between you as he draws you near making you realize just unsteady you are. And for all your frustration that he never says the words out loud, the look he gives you now tells you… everything. Everything you’ve been hoping for. Everything you’ve spent the evening telling yourself you’ll never get to have.

“Let’s get you home,” he tells you, and how do four simple words have the power to feel so vital? Even if you have to fight back the fear that they might get taken away all over again.

The blast of cool night air against your face is alarming, and as you falter under the force of it, his grip tightens for just a second before dropping altogether. You curl after it, missing his touch already, but there’s no need; a warm, steadying arm is thrown around your shoulder, pulling you tight to him. And even more alarming is the lingering kiss pressed to your temple as he guides you towards the car.

The tenderness he shows you as he gets you seated and secured is overwhelming, and you tell yourself it’s the whiskey speaking, when the look in his eyes is so soft, so sincere, so hopeful, that you could lose yourself in them. As is the way that when he’s seated, he grabs your hand, drags it across to his lap and presses, holds it there, like it belongs there, for the entire drive home.


End file.
